Russian Roulette
by HelloLittleLady
Summary: He had taken everything from her–everyone that meant something to her. But Valentine Morgenstern always liked to consider himself as a one of those fair made-mans. So he let her live. And now, several years later, she's out for revenge. Starting with his son, Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. But, she didn't expect the casanova to be oh-so charming. OOC; *Warning language*
1. Prologue

**I apologize in advance for any mishaps in grammar. I didn't get a chance to edit this like I wanted to. But I'll eventually go back and fix everything, as well as change a few little things here and there because I am not too happy with this. **

**I managed to change chapter one to how I like it, so, read that. **

* * *

**Prologue**

**Jocelyn giggled breathlessly as she jogged through the open field,** struggling not to trip over her flowing dress. She bunched up the flimsy skirt in her hand and ran faster, a mischievous smile fanning out across her face. She felt a rush of excitement and adrenaline pulsing through her veins, pumping through her heart.

"Luke!" She shouted to the silhouette who stood alone, gazing up at the full moon. Upon hearing his name, said Luke snapped his eyes behind him to the voice, breaking into a grin as wide as hers once he saw her.

He shifted his body just as she collided into him, barely catching he. She laughed, a sound full of glee, before leaning down to press her lips against his. They remained in a passionate kiss for several moments, locked in each other's embrace before ending the kiss. Luke slowly set her down until the tips of her toes grazed the grass, but didn't remove his hands from her waist. Jocelyn wrapped her arms around his neck, clutching him close to her. She played with the dark hair at the nape of his neck, twirling it idly. Her carefree mood darkened as her next thoughts glazed over.

"I told him no." She whispered, her smile nowhere to be seen. She was slightly relieved that he couldn't see her expression. She knew how much he hated it when she didn't smile.

Luke fell silent, most likely lost in thought. She waited, gauging his reaction as her blood rushed in her ears. Finally, he blew out a long sigh against her neck and tightened his hold on her. "How'd he take it?"

For as long as Luke could remember, the only thing Valentine Morgenstern had actually cared about was Jocelyn. They used to be the best of friends, not to mention allies.

And then they met Jocelyn and everything changed.

They're friendship pivoted and crashed. They both began competing for Jocelyn. In the beginning, it seemed that Valentine would win her heart. He treated her like a queen, after all, buying her gifts from left and right, sending her flowers and showering her with attention. But things quickly turned upside down when Luke began to pursue Jocelyn in his own way. Unlike Valentine, instead of trying to make her fall for him by using his wealth, he opted for a different route. He spent time with her, he talked with her and listened to her and laughed with her, sharing favorite books and music. He was the perfect gentleman, never pushing.

And Jocelyn recognized that with Luke, she'd have a happy marriage. With Valentine, all she'd have was a rather bitter one. She, in the end, she chose the most obvious choice.

As much as Luke wished for Valentine and him to be friends again, he knew that would never happen. But he couldn't regret choosing Jocelyn.

Jocelyn swallowed and buried her face into the crook of his neck as she sniffed, "He . . . he was angry. He blamed it on you." Her voice broke at the end of her sentence and Luke felt her wet tears slide down from the corners of her eyes and dampen his shirt. "I'm afraid of what he'll do."

"I won't let him," Luke promised as he dipped down to kiss her temple.

"No Luke," Jocelyn said as she shook her head and pulled back to look at him, "you don't know that. He's got power by his side_—__"_

"And I don't?" He cut her off, pulling back to stare at her.

"He's ruthless."

"So am I."

"Not when it comes down to me."

"_Especially _when it comes down to you."

"I wish you weren't in this life."

Luke felt his lips part, unable to respond to her words. He looked down at her emerald green eyes, noting how beautiful they looked as they twinkled like gems against the pale light of the moon. He also noted how sad they looked, filled with even more unshed tears.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be sad." Luke apologized, trying not to look as grim as he felt. It didn't matter though. There was only one person who could read him like a book, even with his poker face on, and it was her. "Not when you have a wedding to plan." He said as he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb.

Jocelyn's face lit up slightly, which made his do the same. He twirled a strand of her blazing red hair around his fingers before reaching inside of his jacket pocket to retrieve the engagement ring he'd given to her a week ago. He took her slender left hand in his rough, calloused ones. Gently, he slid the ring onto her finger. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers.

"I love you, Jocelyn. Forever and always." He said as he hugged her to him.

"I love you too, Lucian. Forever and always." She whispered into his ear. It was a moment before she added, "Oh and Luke?"

"Yes?" He murmured as he rubbed her back.

"I don't want a big, fancy wedding. I want a small one. Right here. We'll only invite family, maybe a few close friends."

"Of course," he chuckled, "anything you want, Lyn."

True to his word, Luke and Jocelyn held a small ceremony in the open field beside her family's manor only a week later.

A year later, Jocelyn and Luke welcomed their first child–a baby girl that they named Clarissa.

They were as happy as they could ever be–Luke even more so. Now he'd have an heir to his empire. It didn't matter to him that she was a girl. He didn't believe in men being the dominant race, anyway.

But it nagged Jocelyn. She didn't want her daughter to be tangled in Luke's mafia clan. As much as she loved him, the thought of any of her children being involved in his "work" crushed her. It was dangerous. She worried endlessly about her husband enough already. But to have her child in the mix as well–she just couldn't bear it.

_When the time comes, _she told herself, _I _will _put my foot down._

Little did she know she wouldn't be there _to _put her foot down.

"Happy birthday, baby girl," Jocelyn cooed as she picked up her three–_four–_year old daughter, Clarissa. "You're growing up too fast on me." She sighed as she heaved Clarissa onto her hip. The little girl wasn't heavy by any means–in fact she was more underweight for her age–but to Jocelyn, it felt like it was just yesterday when she was holding the six-pound baby in her arms for the first time.

And since then, little 'Rissa had developed looks, and a personality that varied from her parents. Jocelyn often received compliments on Clarissa's looks, most people saying she looked just like her mother with the same thick and wavy red hair with the blondish hue in the sunlight, the exact glittering green eyes Jocelyn had, and the similar porcelain skin–Clarissa's was often tanned due to the little girl's excessive need to play out in the mud and dirt–which drove Jocelyn up the wall every time.

"Papa will be home soon," she said to a squealing Clarissa. She then switched over, speaking to the young girl in French. "We'll have cake and play games. Your friend, Aline, will be here soon, too."

"Aline?" Clarissa said, eyes wide, filled with pure innocence.

Jocelyn laughed a bit, "_Oui_, _vos copine,_ Aline."

Jocelyn put Clarissa down and watched as the little girl quickly plopped down on her bottom and began to mess with the toys

Luke had bought her as an 'early birthday gift.' Jocelyn knew there would be more gifts. Luke loved to spoil his little girl; his little

Clary, as he often called her by.

She sighed as she moved to her daughter's bedroom window. When Clarissa was born, Luke immediately moved them to Moscow, Russia–the city he had grown up in. He claimed that Valentine would never suspect Luke to move to a place so obvious. But Luke had done it. He'd moved back into the ever bustling city.

_Hidden in plain sight, _she thought wryly.

She enjoyed living in Moscow, but her heart yearned to go back Nice, France. It was the place she'd grown up in, the only place Jocelyn felt she truly knew. But it wasn't safe to back there. And she'd rather not risk it, not with Valentine's threat looming over her head. It was no longer just her, after all.

Jocelyn glanced back at Clarissa, a small smile forming on her lips. She rubbed the back of her neck as she tucked her other arm closely to her side. Her daughter–her pride and joy. For a while now, she'd been feeling as if she were being watched. And now, that instinct had heightened.

She snapped her head back to the window just as the glass shattered. Not a second later a bullet pierced her chest, digging its way until it impaled itself in her heart. Jocelyn looked down as she collapsed, watching in slow motion as blood began to form, staining her petal pink sweater. Faintly, she heard Clarissa screaming out for her all while she cried, terrified of the sudden action.

"_Maman! Maman!"_

But Jocelyn could respond to nothing as her body closed off. Her breathing shortened, the blood began to cease its flow. Her brain switched off like a light bulb.

Luke opened the front door just in that moment having not heard the shattered glass. Confused at Clarissa's wailing, he sprinted up the stairs, pulling out his gun.

He took three steps at a time, the locket with the words "Forever and Always" engraved and a picture of the three of them inside, jingled in his pocket. It was supposed to be Clary's latest birthday gift.

In the hallway he ran straight into Clary's bedroom, bursting through the door. It squeaked and revealed Clarissa sitting on the ground with her nose runny and her eyes red. Her tiny feet ran to him upon sight. Luke picked her up and ran a hand down her head before his eyes found the shattered glass that been scattered around the floor.

He stepped into the room and nearly dropped Clarissa when he saw Jocelyn. Luke put Clary down quickly, mutely telling her to watch out for the glass and then ran over to his wife, taking her pulse. But there was no pulse to take.

Jocelyn was dead.

From outside the house, a man and a woman passed by, making small talk as they walked. The woman paused when she heard a faint shout.

_"Jocelyn!"_

"Did you hear something?" The woman asked, speaking fluent Russian.

The man frowned at her before shrugging, "No." He replied.

The woman looked up at the mansion with wary eyes, before she too, shrugged and carried on.

* * *

**I don't really like this chapter. I didn't get a chance to edit it, because there's a few things I would like to change. But alas, I don't have time. Too much homework and too much school.**

**But I did get a chance to transform chapter one, so yay. Review if you'd be oh-so kind!**

**- Nyx H. **


	2. Chapter One

**Hey! I'm back, I guess. Kinda. Sorta. I had a different account for a while, but I deleted that one 'cause . . . I just felt like it. **

**But anyway, I had this story on that account and I never completed it. I found it the other day and I suddenly felt the urge to re-write it, edit it, and post it. Because the first chapter was pretty boring, in my opinion. So, if you guys like this, I'll continue to write it. If you don't, well, I'll figure what to do with my free time. **

**Review if you want, and enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Clarissa tapped her pen and index finger in an unsynchronized pattern**, staring blankly out the window as she did so. There was a dead silence in her office, save for the hum of useless desktop computer and her own fidgeting. She was exhausted. She was bored. And she was dying for a cigarette. Scratch that, she was dying for the _idea_ of a cig. She actually despised cigarettes, but the thought of how they could calm her overdriven mind was tempting.

She soon grew tired of simply staring out at the gloomy sight called Switzerland. When she'd first arrived, she'd been taken by the country's natural beauty. But soon, the dull weather had caught up to her and her ever-changing mood. And it just wasn't as . . . modern and up to date as she generally preferred.

It also reminded her of her father. Too much of her father.

He would've loved Switzerland.

Clarissa was brought out of her reverie when her cellphone abruptly rang, halting any heartache that generally ensued whenever her thoughts took an unsanctioned turn towards the imaginary file cabinet filled with countless of memories of her father. The very cabinet she tried so hard to keep tucked away with a lock. However, that lock had way too many keys to keep it sealed.

She didn't waste a second as she dropped the pen and swooped up the prepaid phone in her hand. She flipped it open and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello?"

_"We're done."_

"And?"

_"We've got it."_

Clarissa snapped the phone shut, listening as the sound of plastic slapping against plastic echoed around the empty office. She placed the phone gently on the desk before raising her fist and slamming it against the device. It cracked upon impact, sizzling out quickly.

Clarissa rolled out from the desk and pushed against the floor, standing up just as she grabbed the briefcase that sat off to the side. She straightened her blouse, double checking that there weren't any wrinkles in her crisp pencil skirt as she strode over to the door.

With one last glance at the void room, she placed a pair of sunglasses over her eyes and walked out.

She kept her head down in the elevator, not bothering to look up even as the lift paused for others. She smiled at the secretary on her way out, thanking the security guard with her perfect French accent as he opened the door for her.

And then, once she was safely inside the confines of her Mercedes, she unlatched her briefcase and pulled out the tiny black remote that lay inside.

She hesitated for half a second before she clicked the button.

Clarissa sat back, listening to the loud boom that emancipated for the glass building. She watched the windows shatter, the smoke erupt, and the building become consumed by flames.

She hated the place with all her heart. She hated anything that belonged to that Morgenstern bastard. And though her work was far from finished, she could finally check the first step off of her to-do list.

_Valentine,_ she thought with a sneer as she put the car in reverse and pulled off her itchy blonde wig, _this is just the beginning._

* * *

_"Clare . . . Clare . . . "_

_Clary squinted, spinning in circles, trying to see through the blackened haze. "Aline?"_

_"Clarissa . . ."_

_Her eyebrows mashed together as her lips parted. It was different voice. One she hadn't heard in years, but still managed to recognize, "Ma mére?"_

_"Clary, it's me . . ." A deeper voice echoed._

_"Papa?" She called, her voice taking on an hysterical edge as the darkness began to encase her, "Papa, is that you - "_

Clarissa woke with a sharp gasp, panting slightly. Then she proceeded to dig the palms of her hands into her eyes. She didn't remove them until she began seeing small circles dance before her vision and felt the small ache from the pressure. She wiped her sweaty forehead, not stopping until she was pushing back her slightly dampened hair.

Outside of her bedroom, the lights of her temporary flat were shut and the curtains of the windows were pulled back, illuminating the living room in a low glow. She shuffled past the flat screen, over to the window, taking a moment to gaze down at the sight of a foggy London morning. The street below was rather quiet and empty and almost impossible to see from this high up. And the sky was several shades paler than the pitch black she'd fallen asleep to the night before. She watched for a moment longer before turning her back and heading towards the kitchen.

She poured herself a glass of water, trying to soothe her dry, itchy throat. Once the glass was full, she leaned back against the marble countertop and sipped. Clarissa felt something wet and cold roll down her cheek. She lifted her hand and swiped at her cheekbone before pulling back and examining.

It was a teardrop. She'd hadn't even realized she'd been crying.

"Damn it." She murmured hoarsely as she plonked the half empty glass into the sink, no longer feeling the urge to drink. She ran a clammy hand through her burgundy hair—a gesture she did often—as she retreated back to her bedroom to dress. She was feeling rather awake now. Enough to resume traveling. However, she didn't think she would be able to travel in a black camisole and panties.

Just as she was pulling on a pair of jeans, her main phone began to vibrate from where it was stashed inside the drawer of her bedside table. She buttoned her jeans before pulling on the drawer's knob grabbing the phone from inside. While she pressed her fingers over the screen, she yanked up her duffel bag from underneath the bed and unzipped it, shifting through for something fresh to wear. Meanwhile on her phone, the screen flashed green, and with a quick scan of her thumb, it was unlocked.

"Graymark." She said rather firmly, yet calmly. No need for her to bark the name out like some dog.

_"Are you heading out yet?"_ Came a deep voice from the other line.

"Yes." She replied once she realized it was Michael Wayland—her second in command. And her brother when she needed one.

_"You still want to meet up in LA?"_

"That depends," Clarissa muttered as she tugged off her camisole and pulled on a black tank top. "Is Jonathan Morgenstern still attending the gala?"

_"That's what I hear. And apparently, he goes by Jace. Just thought you should know."_

She internally snorted. She could give two shits about what he went by—and Michael knew this well. She stuck out her bottom lip out and blew a strand of hair away from her forehead while the gears in her head began shifting, "I'll need a car once I arrive."

_"Already done."_

"And send me some pictures of this son of a bitch."

_"Sent them to Lewis last night."_

"Also, tell Mikah that Auntie Clare says hi," Clarissa smiled softly.

Michael chuckled at the mention of his three-year-old son, _"Sure thing, Graymark."_

"I'll see you in Los Angeles, Michael." And with that, she hung up and shoved her phone into her pocket. She let out a long, loud sigh, staring at the ceiling before she slid her arms through her leather jacket and threw her duffel strap over her shoulder.

* * *

"Shit, I'm fuckin' starved." Simon moaned as he fell into a step beside Clary. She glanced at him—a quick graze that was followed by an eye roll. If there was one thing Clarissa knew about Simon Lewis, it was that he was always hungry.

"Such a baby." She muttered, to herself mostly, as she pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her contacts until she reached Michael's. She tapped on his name and held the phone to her ear.

Simon chose to ignore her little remark, opting to rummage through his backpack for any leftover snacks, but grumbled when he came up empty.

Michael replied on the second ring. _"Wayland."_

"You promised me a car, Michael. Where the hell is the damn car?" Clarissa growled out impatiently as her eyes scoured the empty lot of the privately-owned airport. Correction: her privately-owned airport.

But whether the airport belonged to her or not, it was still rather risky staying in one place for too long. The last stunt she'd pulled while in the states (murder one of Morgenstern's boys) resulted in an FBI investigation. Of course they found jack-shit, but that's what generally happened when the name Graymark was involved.

_"Relax, Gray, I left your car for you south of the grounds."_

Clary let out a sigh of frustration as she ran a hand through her hair and glanced in said direction. "Which car?"

Michael chuckled, _"You know which one."_

Clarissa felt a slow grin fan out across her face. And then she quickly remembered to reply.

"I'll see you in about two hours, Michael." Then she heard Simon's stomach rumble from where he stood beside her. "Maybe three."

And then she shut her phone. Michael was used to her mood swings. And he knew when she was grateful, even when she didn't voice it. She'd learned a long time ago that being your own boss meant that you didn't have to be thankful to anyone other than yourself. But . . . that didn't mean you couldn't be thankful.

Clarissa turned towards Simon, jerking her chin out towards the empty horizon where the sun was getting brighter by the minute. "Let's go for a little walk." At Simon's alarmed expression, she opened her mouth to reassure him, "we'll get some food once we reach the car."

After nearly a half-hour of trudging through with blister-happy sun shining hell down their backs, they saw the outline of a car in the distance.

She couldn't help herself—she ran.

Sprinted straight towards the car with excitement and adrenaline pumping through her heart and spreading throughout her body with the help of her veins. She was so unbelievably happy to see her car. Her Lamborghini Reventon.

Her goddamn baby, as her crew members often told her.

They can say what they want. Cars aren't disloyal.

When she was just two feet away, coming up to face the side with the passenger door, she jumped and landed on the hood—skidding until she reached the other side. And then she flipped herself so she was hugging the car, resting her sweaty cheek against the warm glass.

_"Holy shit!"_ Simon exclaimed once he reached me, panting slightly, face reddened from exertion. "You sure can fuckin' run!" He wheezed.

Clarissa turned to look at his disheveled expression and felt the corner of her mouth tug up. But she didn't remove her body from where it was currently glued to the hood of her car.

"I didn't realize you still had energy after all that," Simon continued, shaking his head as he waved a hand through the air and placed the other on his hip.

"You're just out of shape, Si." She said with a shrug and a small smile. "Maybe that vacation you took to Fiji was a bad idea."

Simon's eyes shot up to hers, disbelief written all over them, "Oh, hell no. I'd do that shit again in an instant."

Clarissa shook her head and peeled herself off of her car. Opening the driver's door, Clarissa pulled the seat back. She ran her fingers over the heated leather, pausing when she felt the hardened leather hollow. Plunging her hand inside of the seat, she pulled out a pair of silver keys. Fixing the chair, she slid in and started up the engine. It purred to life and she almost purred right along with it.

"You should buy me one of these," Simon said as he climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door. "Oh man, these seats feel like butter."

"You should probably stop wasting the money I pay you on Fiji and women." Clarissa retorted as she slammed her foot on the gas.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Simon shrug. "That's a given," he admitted before whooping as Clarissa drove even faster.

And that's how it was like for the rest of the ride. Sort of.

* * *

Simon made her stop for food not even two hours later.

"You truly show no remorse towards your immune system," Clarissa sniffed as they walked through the doors of the random burger joint. She cringed at the smell of grease and oil in the air, wanting no more than to simply continue on with their journey.

They'd parked behind the restaurant, and even though it was a short walk to the front doors, Clarissa could feel herself sweating bullets under the heated gaze of the sun. She was really starting to hate the cheery bastard.

"And you," Simon began as he spun around on his heel to face her, "have been deprived as a child, so you have no idea how to truly enjoy the meals offered here in America. Which means you should keep your judgments to yourself." Simon then quickly marched towards the counter to order.

Clarissa cocked an eyebrow at his turned back before averting her eyes to the menu. She toyed with the idea of buying something. She was hungry after all . . .

But then she nearly choked on her own saliva when her eyes glazed over the calorie count for everything on the menu.

"And this country wonders why they're obese." She muttered under her breath as she slid into a booth. And then she thought better of it and stood.

As the minutes ticked on, Clarissa spent her time alternating between chewing on her lip and continuously checking out the open window. She just had a small feeling that ever since she'd landed in America, everything just seemed too easy. There were no Feds lurking in the corners, none of Valentine's men chasing after her with machine guns and explosive bombs, ready to end her life without a single thought.

"You look tense." Simon commented as he slid into the booth formerly occupied by her. He tossed a fry into his mouth.

"I just have a bad feeling," She said, fidgeting with the hem of her tank top.

Simon's eyebrow rose as he pointed another fry at her, "You know what? You're too paranoid for your own good. You need to relax." Simon said. "Just repeat this, I'm Clarissa Graymark. Infamous leader of the Russians. I'm badass."

Clarissa wasn't fazed by Simon's quirkiness. That's what she got for hiring an American.

She turned away to look out the window, feeling a ghost of a smile spread out across her lips. "Don't ever become a therapist, Lewis."

He snorted, "Have you seen my criminal record? I'll be lucky if I can even land a job at McDonald's."

Though she didn't voice it out loud, Clarissa internally agreed. It was the main reason she'd hired Simon. He was a bit of a convict. But that was just what she'd needed—someone who wasn't afraid to have a little run-in with the law, someone who was good at computers, which fortunately for her, was Lewis' specialty. He could tap into any security system without even batting an eye. But there was a price to pay with that type of skill.

And that price was Simon's unfiltered mouth.

It wasn't too hard getting Simon Lewis on her side. For one, he was starting to despise the American law after his fifth prosecution. When she found him, he was getting ready to face twenty years in jail for several petty crimes and several large ones. After bailing Simon out, she hired some top-notch lawyer to defend him. And when Simon walked away, clean thanks to her, she offered him the job.

Clarissa was brought to reality by her vibrating phone.

Glancing at where Simon sat chowing away on his food, Clarissa plugged her left ear with her index finger and answered the call. "Graymark."

_"Where are you right now?"_ Michael asked urgently, straight to the point.

"Some fast-food place. Lewis got hungry," she explained, though she assumed Michael had already configured this.

_"Where exactly?"_

Clarissa frowned as she squinted out at the road sign that sat several yards away, "We're in . . . Palmdale."

Michael cursed on the other end, and Clarissa could feel his frustration creeping on to her. She felt knots in her stomach and her eyebrows mashed together, as she heeded his words. _"Listen to me carefully now, Clare. I need you and Simon to get out of there. Now."_

"What? Why?" Clarissa whispered, almost frantically. "What's going on, Michael?"

_"Morgenstern's men—they're there in Palmdale. They know where you are, Clarissa."_

She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling her heart-rate increase rapidly. She took calming breaths, knowing that any stress that were to come to her at that moment would do her no good. "How many minutes do you think it'll take them."

_"Five, at the most. Look, you need to get the hell out of—"_

Suddenly a loud pop echoed and the window behind her shattered into a million tiny pieces. Customers and employees alike screamed in unison as they all fell to the ground, terror etched in their faces. Clarissa ducked as well, closing her phone and shoving it into her pocket. She made eye-contact with Simon—who'd already pulled out his gun and was in the process of cocking it. Clarissa followed in his suit, taking out her glock and flipping off the safety switch, ready to squeeze out shots in defiance if she needed to. She and Simon wasted no time in hunching over the table as a series of bullets sprung from the shattered window.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, wincing at the how luridly loud the shots were.

"Valentine," Clarissa griped, her mouth settling into a grimace. "Who else would open fire in a public place?"

"How are gonna get away?" Simon asked, covering his head as another shot flew in and smashed against the menu that hung over the cash register.

"We need a distraction," she said, thinking hard for an idea. Simon's eyes turned wide as another gunshot rang overhead, flying point-first into his food.

"My fries!" He cried, sorrow overtaking his apprehension.

Clarissa's face lit up then. "I think I've got an idea."

"What is it?"

"It's risky . . ."

"Fuck risky—we're about to die!"

Clarissa reached into her back pocket and retrieved her keys. "Here," she said. "It's me they're after—"

Simon looked at her incredulously, shaking his head before cutting her off, "No, Clare. You can't sacrifice yourself for me."

Clarissa smiled at him dryly, "Wasn't planning on it. Now if you'd let me finish," she paused momentarily to sit up on her knees. "I'll run out and put up a fight. Meanwhile, I want you to go out back and bring the car around."

Simon looked at her hesitantly, almost dubiously, "You think that's going to work?"

"Do you have a better plan, Simon?" She snapped, her voice harsher than she'd intended. Simon gulped and shook his head, snatching her keys obediently. Clarissa nodded rightfully, "That's what I thought."

And then she was busy reloading her glock, thankful for the second gun she'd hastily stashed into the waistband of her jeans before they'd exited the car, earlier. She waited a minute before rolling out from under the table, both guns cocked and aiming. She shot three warning shots—

—Before doing some real harm.

"Ah!" One man screamed as he dropped to the ground, clutching his wounded arm. He was a part of Morgenstern's crew. He was also the one who'd shot at her, managing to graze her leather jacket and effectively ruin it.

"Damn it!" She muttered, not bothering to check the damage as she pulled the trigger once more.

Another man went down, shot in the leg.

Clarissa squinted against the glare of the sun, aiming . . .

Bam! This time, she managed to kill a guy.

Propping herself up on the window sill, she jumped out onto the dead, yellow grass and let out a string of shots that reverted straight back to her. One by one, Morgenstern's crew began dropping like rain drops.

In the end, none of the original eight remained.

"Clare!" She heard Simon's voice shout out from behind her. She whipped around immediately and dove straight towards her car. Clarissa practically ripped open the door to the passenger side, yelling at Simon to hurry up and drive.

_What a macabre,_ she thought with a hint of amusement as her eyes caught the red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

"Well," Simon sighed, wiping his forehead, "that's one way to kick off our first day back in America."

* * *

**So, yeah. Tell me what you think!**

**-Nyx H.**


	3. Chapter Two

**Hey, it's moi again. So, I have some foreign words in here. French, Ukrainian and Russian. I'l' have the translation on the bottom. PS I use Google translate, so don't expect it to be perfect. **

**Sorry for an grammar mistakes, I'm lazy. **

* * *

**"How could you be so ****_foolish?_** And—And _stupid?_ You almost got yourself killed, Graymark! Are you even listening to me right now?"

Clarissa pulled her narrowed eyes away from her phone, settling her icy glare on Michael. Her fingers twitched, but she refused to let her fiery temper unleash on her second-in-command. "Let's get one thing straight, shall we?" She leaned forward in her seat, getting a better look at Michael's rusty brown eyes. "One, I am _not _some recruit fresh off the streets. Two, I have _experience_ in these situations. Three, Simon and I came out _alive_, without a scratch. And four, _I _am the leader here. Not _you_." She sat back before letting out an abrupt, _"Are we clear?"_

Michael's lips remained sealed as he looked down at Clarissa. She immediately stood then, her heeled boots giving her the leverage she needed.

Michael's jaw tightened before he let out a small, one-bobbed nod. "Yes, ma'am."

Clarissa bit back the grimace at the word ma'am. It made her sound like some ancient, wrinkly eighty-four year old. But she had to give Michael props for knowing where to nip but not snip. Just like a true brother would.

Clarissa let out an audible breath, her eyelids fluttering closed as she gestured to the door with her finger. "Dismissed."

When she reopened her eyes, Michael was walking towards the door. And she would've averted her eyes had he not stopped with his feet lingering in the doorway. Michael placed his giant palm against the doorframe, practically analyzing it as he went over his next words.

"I'm still here for a reason, Clarissa."

"I know," She murmured quietly.

"You don't have to this alone."

"Michael—"

Michael smiled ruefully all of the sudden, "I still miss him."

Clarissa didn't know what to say, having been caught off guard by the expression he wore and the wistfulness in his voice. Michael had never been one to dwell on the past—something Clarissa was incapable of. She had an annoying habit of never being able to forget and let go. But Michael was always wiser, even beyond his own years.

"Michael . . ."

Whatever reverie Michael had been flying in, he was certainly on the ground now. He blinked twice, shaking his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll see you later," he muttered, eyebrows bunched, before swiftly exiting the room.

Clarissa plopped back down in her seat with her lips parted as she leaned heavily over the armrest. Sometimes she hated who she was.

She idly examined the metal cup that propped up all of her blue, red and black pens. Reaching forward, she tipped back the container and let the pens roll and scatter. Amongst the sea of plastic pens was a brass-colored key. Clarissa plucked it right up and brought it close. She toyed with key, fingered the jagged edges and eventually used it to unlock the first drawer on her right.

The drawer was empty save for the three photographs that were already there, face-down. The key landed with a _clink _as she tossed it onto the table and picked up the pictures.

The first one was of her mother, weeks before she'd died. Clarissa's heart didn't pang so much as it tugged. She was beautiful, just like her father had always described her. In the photo, she was cradling Clarissa in her arms, laughing down at her younger self. Her long, burgundy hair was pulled back by a clip, and her gem-like green eyes appeared darkened by the dim lighting in the picture. She had a smile on her face—a genuine, happy smile with little dimples dotting her cheeks. Her father had said it was the last picture ever taken of Jocelyn Graymark.

Clarissa just barely remembered her mother. Her death hadn't affected Clarissa emotionally, but it made her wonder what it would've been like to grow up with a mother by her side instead of a vendetta-driven father.

It was true, no matter how much she loved him. Growing up, all she wanted to be was normal—to have friends, go shopping and crush on cute boys. But that had just been a dream. Especially since she spent the rest of her life sharpening her skills—which included the art of assassination, entrepreneurship, fighting techniques and cheating polygraphs.

The next photograph was of Luke, Jocelyn, and an infant-sized Clarissa. Clarissa felt her eyes burn as she stared at her father's blissfully frozen face. He didn't look too different from when he'd died—a little younger, but had the same salt and pepper hair, same ice blue eyes, same crooked smile.

She didn't like the melancholy feelings swirling in her chest, so she gently placed the two pictures back into the drawer and picked up the last one.

It was of a gorgeous Asian girl with dark, almond-shaped eyes, porcelain skin and silky, ebony hair. Aline Penhallow. She had her arm roped around a redhead with unruly hair and green eyes—Clarissa, who at the time was just beginning to look like the exact spitting image of Jocelyn. Aline's thin lips were spread into a mischievous grin as her flirty eyes stared over at the stranger holding the camera.

Clarissa couldn't remember who the man was. Not clearly, anyway. For one, she had well-over passed the legal blood-alcohol level. All she could remember was that the boy had white-blonde hair and a thin, white scar that cut into his upper lip.

And that by the end of the night, Aline was grinding against him, kissing him like there was no tomorrow. Would've had sex on the nightclub floor had Clarissa not stopped her.

"Oh, Aline . . ." Clarissa whispered, absently cupping her chin as she stared at her deceased best friend. _Why couldn't she have listened to me when I told her to stay away?_

Clarissa knew the answer to that. Aline had been a wild one, always ready to provoke danger at it's worse.

And Clarissa was danger brewing a shit-storm.

"You ready for tonight?" Asked a voice from the door. Clarissa dropped the photo and glanced at the intruder.

Magnus Bane had one perfectly thick eyebrow cocked up at her, a quirky smile pulling at his lips. His hip jutted out, a precisely-manicured hand over. He wore a black turtleneck—probably Armani—and an alligator-skin belt holding up his crisp black slacks.

"I'm ready for anything." Clarissa said as she slid the picture back into the drawer. She locked it with the key before standing up and tilting her neck. "My God, Magnus. _Another _alligator belt? I'm surprised PETA hasn't paid you a visit."

Magnus' face took on an amused smirk, "Oh would you look at that—you're offended I didn't buy you a pair!"

Clarissa scoffed, "Please. You could not be more off if you tried."

"Darling, I'm a certified psychologist."

Clarissa walked over, mirroring his stance as she looked up at him, "And now you're my stylist." She patted his shoulder, "it's alright—I bet a lot of kids use their college degrees as living room coasters."

Magnus playfully scowled, "My, my—Russian women are bitches."

Clarissa grinned, "You forget that I am half French."

"That's kind of ironic," Magnus began as they made their way down the corridor, "the French are supposed to be all romantic, speaking the language of love and whatnot. But there is only one thing that I've ever thought was romantic of you."

Clarissa frowned, "And what is that?"

"Remember that one op we had in Peru?"

"Yes, of course."

"And do you remember what we did afterwards? How we went on this one little boat ride on the Amazonas River?"

"Yes . . . Your point?"

"Well, it _was_ reserved for this one couple originally. And you didn't feel like renting out a boat, so you knocked the guy out. And when his girlfriend showed up, screaming as she went to check his pulse, you knocked her out as well."

"And that was romantic how?" Clarissa asked as they turned right towards Magnus' little domain. The dress-up room.

Magnus chuckled, "You laid them down so they were in each other's embrace. I just thought that was cute."

Clarissa stopped in her tracks, "Huh. I never even thought about that."

Magnus clapped his hands, "Maybe you do have a romantic bone in that stone-hard bod of yours. All you need now is the right guy to come and ignite that little spark."

Clarissa heaved a sigh, "Magnus, I already told you—"

Magnus cut her off, "Yeah, yeah. I remember, 'it's too dangerous' blah, blah, blah. But, it is possible. I mean, your dad married and had you. And from what I heard, he was pretty happy for a while."

Clarissa's voice turned hard and clipped as she glowered. "My father got the girl of his dreams. And then she was murdered by his enemy. He became a widower and I became motherless."

Magnus didn't reply, instead choosing to gaze into her eyes with an emotion she couldn't interpret. She didn't bother dissect it, she continued.

"I do not want to have a child and have what happened to me happen to him or her. It is a heavy burden to carry around. I love my father, but he was so consumed at getting revenge, that he raised me to become a soldier at his disposal. And now, I'm just as consumed as he was."

Clarissa, no longer interested in preparing, turned back towards the door. "Assemble the gala outfit. I've got to go over logistics in the tech room."

Magnus nodded mutely, still wearing the same odd expression. Clarissa couldn't take the look and turned to walk out.

She'd been felt more distress that day than the time she was Valentine's prisoner. She prayed the mission didn't go awry as well.

* * *

"That's him?" Clarissa asked for the umpteenth time, "Are you sure?"

Simon turned in his seat and looked her dead in the eye, _"Yes." _He stressed the word, "I am sure. What's up with you? You're acting like you don't understand English." He shook his head and turned back to his computer, "and I know for fact you do. Hell, you probably understand English better than me."

Clarissa bit the inside of her cheek, ignoring hid comments like she usually did. She ran a nervous hand through her hair.

Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern was one attractive sonovabitch.

"I just thought . . ." Clarissa said, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Simon chuckled, "Didn't expect him to what?"

"Look nothing like Valentine Morgenstern."

Simon clamped his mouth shut, agreeing though he didn't verbalize it. Jonathan didn't share any physical genes with his father. And she would know—she'd gotten an up close look at Valentine.

The man on the screen had honey blonde hair, auburnish gold eyes and a surfer's complexion. He was tall and built, with a strong, chiseled jaw and a perfect smile. Symmetrical and everything. It wasn't fair.

She shook the thoughts out of her head and zoomed in on the arm he had around the girl. The photo was snapped right out of some elite club in upstate New York. Jonathan had been there two weeks back.

"Is he on a date?" Clarissa asked as she straightened her posture and crossed her arms.

"Looks like it," Simon said, "the girl's just some British model."

"Name?"

"Anna Brown, age twenty-two, born and raised in London."

"Are her parents significant?"

"Gimme a sec," Simon muttered as he typed away, "Uh no, not really. Her parents are Lillian and Gregory Brown, ages fifty-one and fifty-two. Work occupations: nurse and a high school teacher. Aw, what good samaritans." Simon said dryly.

"Is she significant?"

Whoa. Jealous and you haven't even met him yet."

_"Lewis."_

"No. This guy goes through women faster than Hugh Hefner."

Clarissa rolled her eyes and messed with his hair,_ "Merci, âne."_

"Yeah, yeah. Wait, what does _âne_ mean?"

"I've gotta go," Clarissa suddenly declared, "Magnus is waiting for me."

Simon shook his head at her retreating figure, shaking his head as muttered _âne _under his breath.

She had just barely stepped foot in the "dress-up" room before Magnus was rushing and pushing Clarissa towards the bathroom, "Go shower. I'll be waiting out here for you. C'mon girl, I only got two hours to work my magic."

Clarissa complied to Magnus' orders. Once the door was shut and locked, she stripped down and stepped into the shower, cranking up the hot water as she did so. She didn't take very long, taking ten minutes to shampoo, condition and scrub. However, by the sounds of Magnus' incessant knocking, she may as well have taken an hour.

"What were you doing in there?" Magnus asked incredulously when Clarissa unlocked the door.

She looked at him blankly, "Having sex with the shower head."

Magnus' lips curled back in disgust, "Must you be so crude?"

Clarissa's expression didn't change.

He shook his head, "Whatever, come on."

He led her over to the black chair in front of the vanity. He grabbed chunks of her damp hair, sifting through it all before pulling out a comb. "This is gonna be a bitch to brush through."

And then, just like he said he would, Magnus performed his magic.

_"Vy zakonchili?"_ Clarissa murmured in Russian after what felt like forever. She lifted her eyelids to peek over at Magnus. His eyebrows her furrowed over in concentration as he dapped some more at her cheeks.

_"Zakinchenyy̆,"_ Magnus replied in Ukrainian, his native tongue. "And . . . _voilà!"_

Clarissa opened her eyes and smiled at the reflection, craning her neck to get a better look.

She looked different.

She looked sharper.

She looked sexier.

"I knew I could count on you, Mr. Magnus Bane." Clarissa sighed as she fluffed her perfect curled hair. "Hmm, hair down. That's new."

"You'll be more like his type."

"Jonathan Morgenstern doesn't have a type."

"He will once he sees you."

Clarissa smirked and looked at Magnus through the mirror, "Show me the dress."

"Finally, the best part." Magnus grinned.

* * *

**Jace**

Jace straightened the collar of his black button up before reaching over to fumble with his matching tie. He wrestled with it for a minute or two, before sighing dejectedly and letting it hang from his neck.

"Need help?" Isabelle's voice sounded out from behind him. He closed his eyes, feeling a headache beginning to ensue.

"Nope," Jace replied as he restarted the battle with the piece of fabric. And he truly did not. Within a matter of seconds, he had the thing straightened and tied. "See?"

Isabelle stepped forward just as Jace turned around. His eyes narrowed at her appearance. Her tall silhouette was swathed in a ruby red gown, no doubt designer. Her raven hair was pulled up in a bun, clipped in place by what appeared to be a diamond-incrusted comb with tendrils framing her heart-shaped face.

Most men would've been thrilled to realize what Jace realized in that moment. But Jace wasn't most men. And Isabelle Lightwood was not what he considered to be the "perfect" date.

"Why are you all dressed up?" he asked anyway, even though he knew the answer. He just dreaded it.

"I'm your date." Isabelle beamed, doing a small spin. "You like? I know I do."

Jace cocked an eyebrow, "No, you're not. Kaelie is."

"About that," Isabelle started as she gracefully lowered herself onto the leather chair in the corner and raised her index finger, "Hodge made us switch. Said you'll be too distracted. He needs you sharper than a knife. And I happened to be good at sharpening knives."

Jace glared, "Bullshit."

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Does it look like I want to go with you? I don't have a choice. _We _don't have a choice. So, suck it up."

Jace sighed, feeling his mood darkening already. He pulled on his suit jacket, messed with his hair and jerked his chin to the door. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

"Gladly," Isabelle agreed eagerly. "The faster we finish up here, the faster I can get back to Meliorn."

Jace opened his mouth, his words catching in his throat. He really didn't feel like being the one to tell her that Meliorn was screwing other women behind her back. Isabelle was not one to do tears and complain about heartbreak. She generally took her frustration out on the other agents. She sparred with whoever was willing, even going as far as using her whip on objects. Or people. He internally shuddered. _Isabelle and her whip . . . _

Isabelle's wrath was certainly _not _something he needed.

"I'm sure he'll be excited to see you, too." Jace said instead, smiling levelly down at her as they stopped in front of the elevator. He pressed the down button.

Isabelle paused and frowned. "What do you mean?"

Jace controlled his facial expressions. Isabelle had the habit of reading people and actually being good at it. "Nothing."

"Jace—"

"We're late, Isabelle. I'll tell you later, but now is not the time." Jace cut in as he glanced at his Rolex.

Isabelle looked as if she wanted to argue, but didn't get the chance as Jace had already slid into the now-ajar elevator. She followed him, silent the whole way to limo parked out front.

Jace would be lying if he said he didn't felt guilty for worrying her. But it wasn't like he said anything out of line. She was just too observant for her own good.

_Which makes her the perfect assassin._

Jace's faced distorted.

The remaining time spent in the limousine was spent with Isabelle pestering him about Meliorn.

"Isabelle!" Jace finally snapped. _"Enough!_ I said we would talk later, and we will! I don't want to hear another word!"

Isabelle sat back, her mouth clasped shut, realizing she was beginning to cross the line between colleague and superior. He didn't like commanding her like that, especially since she was his best friend's younger sister. But when Isabelle was determined, she was _determined. _She was also annoying.

"I'm sorry," she apologized a while later. She didn't look at him, however. Her eyes stayed glued to the window.

"It's fine," Jace muttered as he leaned forward to fetch a glass of scotch from the cooler.

_Three more hours. That's it._

Now only if those three hours would just hurry up.

* * *

By the time Jace and Isabelle reached the gala, the party was going on.

Jace spotted all sorts of people—political figures, wealthy businessmen and women, movie producers as well as a few celebrities here and there. That was no surprise to Jace. It was quite the important event of the year, the charity gala. It auctioned off various paintings from well-known artists as well as jewelry and other items. The money was all donated to children hospitals across the country.

Jace didn't mind donating the money. It was the mingling he detested.

But he had to in order to keep up appearances. And since his father was off doing who-knows-what, the responsibility had fallen into Jace's lap. The orders were simple, though. Buy a painting or three, talk on behalf of Morgenstern Inc. and then leave.

"I'm going over to the bar," Jace murmured into Isabelle's ear. She looked at him disapprovingly just as he knew she would.

"Jace, I don't think that's a good idea. You already had scotch in the car ride here."

Jace groaned, "Oh please. It's not like I plan on getting totally wasted. Just one more drink to endure this," he said, waving a hand over the wave of people. Isabelle just looked resign.

"Jace . . ."

"Look, I have you here for a reason. If anything bad happens—which I doubt—you'll cover for me."

Eventually, he'd managed to persuade Isabelle to let him go. It took quite the convincing, but he'd promised to tell her all about Meliorn later. Needless to say, she dropped his arm rather quickly.

"Tequila," he told the bartender. She grinned at him and nodded, going off to fetch his drink. He sat down on of the empty bar stools, waiting patiently for her to come back.

"Here you go," she said as she slid it over to him. He smiled slowly at her, deeming her to be rather pretty with her curly blonde hair and baby-blue eyes.

"Dakota," he read her nametag, "pretty name."

She blushed and opened her mouth to reply when someone suddenly settled down into the seat beside his.

"Vodka, lemon on the side." Came the demanding voice. The trance he had on the cute little bartender snapped as they both turned to look at the new comer.

Jace forgot all about Dakota the moment his eyes laid on the beautiful girl beside him, wearing a plunging green gown. She hadn't noticed him yet, for she was too busy fetching through her purse.

She had fiery red hair, thick and long. Pure, ivory skin and a petite, supple body that curved in _all _of the right places. When she did look up, it was at him. She had the brightest green eyes he'd ever seen that seemed to match the shade of her dress. Complete emerald orbs coated in eyeliner and some dab of eye-shadow. He was sure she looked even better without all the makeup.

"Hi," she smiled, her plump, pink lips fanning out to reveal a crooked smile. Jace couldn't help but think it was breathtaking.

"Hey yourself," he replied, his attention solely on her now. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jace noticed the bartender slide Clarissa drink over to her, a little too curtly.

She bit her lip. He wanted to the same. Instead, he turned to his drink and practically threw it down his throat, lavishing in the burn. Something to get himself back in place. For God's sake, she hadn't even been sitting there for two minutes and all he wanted to take her.

She grabbed her shot glass, tossed it back, slammed the glass down and then bit into her lemon. He had to admit, he was slightly impressed. Vodka wasn't exactly something light. It had to have burned her neck, but as he studied her, he realized that her eyes didn't even water.

"I'm Jace," he told her when she was done.

"Jace," she nodded, the corner of her lips quirking up. "Refreshingly different. I like it."

"What about yours," he said, turning the tables on her.

She pursed her lips. "I don't know if I should just give it up so easily."

He shrugged, "How about a dance? Maybe some waltzing will spill it out of you."

She laughed softly, an appealing, tinkling sound that sounded _way _better than it should've. "You can try."

He went to reach into his wallet to pay for their drinks, but she was already sliding a fifty towards Dakota.

"Keep the change," she told the other girl without removing her eyes from Jace.

His lips parted, "I think I was supposed to do that."

"Says who?" She defied, going defensive.

Jace opened and closed his mouth, "I, uh . . ."

"Sorry," she said then, "I'm a bit of a feminist."

Jace grinned, "S'okay. But, maybe next time, you should let me do the honors."

She cocked her head, "Next time?"

Jace hadn't even realized he'd said that, but he found himself agreeing anyway. "Yeah, next time."

"Sounds promising," she commented as they reached the dance floor.

"Maybe because it is," Jace said as he placed his palm on her waist, the other clasping her hand in his. A shot went up and they both flinched. They looked at each, but neither one of them said anything as they slowly began to sway.

"What's your name?" He asked again, almost begging her.

"You can guess." She told him as he spun her.

Jace hummed, "Alicia?"

She giggled, "No."

"Laura?"

"Nope."

"Hailey?"

"Nuh uh."

"Bridget?"

"No."

"Blair?"

"As in Gossip Girl?" She asked.

His eyebrows mashed together, "What?"

"Nevermind. Next?"

"Um, Sarah?"

"Mmm, no."

"Miranda? Marina? Mandy? Mia?"

She shook her head with an amused expression, "No, no, no and no."

Jace pouted, "I don't really like this game."

_"And now, we shall begin the auction! Everyone to their seats."_

Jace didn't look dissuaded. "Where are you sitting?"

"Table Three."

Now he did look slightly dissuaded. "I'll see you there in a few minutes."

She nodded and he let go of her, wishing he didn't have. He turned to look at the throng of people. It didn't take him very long to find Isabelle. She sort of stood out.

_Time to switch seats. _

* * *

**I originally planned on this chapter being longer, but I decided that would impossible right now. This is un-beta'd as usually. I guess you'll have to get used that with little ol' me and my lazy butt.**

**Translations:**

_**(French) Merci, âne: **_Thanks, ass.

_**(Russian) Vy zakonchili: **_Are you finished

_**(Ukrainian) Zakinchenyy̆:**_ Finished

**-Nyx H.**


	4. Chapter Three

**Sorry for any mistakes in grammar! I edited it, but I may or may not have missed a few things here and there. **

**Just a reminder, this is rated T. So even though it seems like I'll do something M rated, I won't. Although I will admit, I sometimes use M-rated words. Not in this chapter, though. **

***Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.***

* * *

**Clarissa**

**Clarissa watched as Jace disappeared through the crowd,** losing him effortlessly due to her diminutive height. She crossed her arms and observed the party-goers, searching for anything that seemed out of place. A girl like her could never be too wary.

"I'm going radio-silent." Clarissa murmured as she peeked down at her shoes and pressed the earpiece closer to her lobe.

First there was static, then Michael's voice aired. "Are you sure?"

"I need to seduce the guy and I'd rather not have half the crew listening in while I do it."

Michael was silent for a moment. "Be careful, Clare."

"I always am," Clarissa retorted. She pulled out the bug and quickly hid it from any prying eyes.

And the she made her way to Table Three. The table Michael had deemed safe enough for her to sit down at and not be questioned as to why people she didn't generally make public appearances.

When she arrived, she was slightly dismayed to see all the weathered men seated around. She suddenly regretted going radio-silent. At the moment, the only thing she wanted to do was berate Michael.

"So, you're Clarissa?" One of the geezers asked once she had been seated by a nearby waiter. She tensed for a moment, wondering how in the world he knew her name. And that's when she suddenly realized there was a card laid out before her, the name Clarissa Fray, splayed out in cursive text. She relaxed instantly. It was the name she used for everything—for her cars, her houses, her companies . . .

"Yes," she nodded to the balding man. He grinned at her, showcasing his chapped lips and pre-historic teeth.

She was going to kill Michael.

"I'm Ronald," He informed, holding out his hand. Clarissa eyed it warily but took it anyway, expecting a short handshake.

"Hello, Ronald."

He grinned again, before tugging her hand towards him. Clarissa watched in fascinated horror as her hand grew closer, and his now-moist lips approached. And then a large, strong hand clapped the man on his shoulder, making Ronald jump.

"Ronald!" Said a familiar voice, "Where's the clown-make-up? And the yellow suit?"

Ronald suddenly looked very, very annoyed.

"Jace," he nodded in acknowledgement, "always a pleasure. How's your old man?"

Clarissa turned in her seat to look up at Jace. There, fixated on his lips, was a sardonic-looking smirk.

"Still younger than you," Jace remarked. "and good, if that's what you meant."

Clarissa pressed her lips together in order to keep in her surprised chortle. No one had informed her of Jace's . . . eccentric manners. That's when she suddenly noticed an opportunity. As subtly as she could, she retrieved her hand from Ronald's loosened grasp and placed it back in her lap. Of course Ronald noticed and his attention momentarily waned from Jace and diverted to her. He opened his mouth, but Jace beat him to the punch.

"Listen, Ronald—how about you switch seats with me."

Ronald's eyebrows rose up. "Why in the world would I do that? My buddies are here," he gestured to all the other men before settling his eyes on Clarissa, "and Clarissa and I were having such a wonderful conversation."

Clarissa looked at him perplexedly. She'd only spoken three words to him.

"I'm sure you were," Jace rolled his eyes. "But you'll be pleasantly surprised by the brunette sitting over at Table Five."

Ronald strained his neck to look over at Table Five, reminding Clarissa of an ostrich by the minute. She was suddenly grateful for Jace, as ironic as it was.

Ronald glanced back at Clarissa with unsure squinty eyes, before shaking his head. "Nah, you can have the brunette."

Jace narrowed his eyes.

"I wonder what Diane would do if she realized you were creeping on women probably four times younger than you. You remember Diane, right? Your wife?"

Ronald gulped and stood, "She's all yours."

Jace smiled down at Ronald wryly. They both watched as Ronald made his way over to Table Five and began harassing the brunette Jace had been referring to earlier.

"I'm guessing he's always like that?" Clarissa inquired, dragging Jace's attention back to her.

"What, like a dirty, asshole-ish pedophile? Unfortunately." Jace nodded. "I hope he didn't bother you too much."

Clarissa shook her head, "I barely said a sentence to him."

"That's a sentence too much."

She smiled.

Jace sat down. "Clarissa, right? While I've been trying to get your name for the past fifteen minutes, a guy like Ronald gets it with one creepy conversation?"

Clarissa reached forwards and picked up the card with her name printed over it. "I didn't exactly tell him." She clarified as she placed it back down. Jace still looked disgruntled. "What's wrong?"

"I can't believe you made me try to guess your name. I've never even heard a name close to Clarissa." Even as he said this, she could tell his minding was whirring. He had heard her name before, but he just couldn't pinpoint where.

She shrugged and picked at the table cloth. "It's a bit of a mouthful."

"Do you have any nicknames?"

Clarissa was just about to open her mouth and say no, when one came to mind. But it was a name no one dared to call her now, not even Michael.

"Clary."

"Clary," Jace repeated, "refreshingly different. I like it." He quoted the words she'd told him earlier. Clarissa bit her lip.

"You shouldn't do that," he reprimanded softly as he gently tugged at her chin. She let go obediently.

"It's a habit," she shrugged.

"It's a habit that'll get you in trouble one day," Jace muttered, to himself mostly.

She felt confused. "What do you mean—"

"Will Jonathan Morgenstern please step forward to say a few words?"

Jace grimaced and stood. "That's me."

"Your full name is Jonathan?" Clary asked.

His grimace morphed into a frown. "Yeah." He didn't offer much else as he turned and strode straight to the stage.

Up on stage, the frown that had been disturbing his tranquil face had all but vanished. In it's place was a hastily-plastered smile as Jace sauntered to the podium. He propped his arms up and adjusted the mic.

"Hello and good evening! For those who do not know who I am, my name is Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern—Jace, for short. I'm here on behalf of my father, Valentine Morgenstern, who's apologetic that he couldn't be here to attend—had some overseas business to attend to. But don't worry, he still plans on splurging."

Clarissa's ears quirked up at that. Overseas? Exactly where overseas? She could already picture Michael getting on it. She had no doubt he knew. He'd hacked in the hotel's security system before she'd arrived.

"Since the night is still young, let's begin with the auctioning!"

Jace flashed one of his infamous smirks before walking off the stage, heading back the way he'd come. Clarissa watched him, more like assessed him. He just didn't spark her as the type to be the son of a diabolical, plain cynical, wretched man. He just looked too humane, too American, too cocky.

Clarissa smiled at Jace as he neared. Now, it was time for her to cast some serious spell.

* * *

Three hours, two drinks and a meal later, Clarissa had spent more money on paintings than she spent on cars. It was ridiculous, to be quite blunt.

Jace had spent twice as much as she had.

"Hey, do you wanna get out of here?" Clarissa purred as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder and lifted herself so that her mouth was aligned with his ear.

He turned to look at her, his hooded auburn eyes growing darker. "What do you have in mind?"

Clarissa shrugged nonchalantly, "Your place . . . ? Or mine, if you want." She added promptly.

Jace didn't reply for a moment, seeming lost in thought. He stayed like this until she tapped his shoulder to bring him back.

"Jace?"

"Yeah," he said suddenly as he stood. "We'll go—I just need to tell somebody something."

She nodded, "Of course."

Clarissa pulled out her a mirror compact, pretending to simply look as if she were checking up on her looks. She tilted the mirror, however, keeping Jace in her eyesight as he stopped to talk to the gorgeous brunette over at Table Five.

She couldn't read the look on the girl's face. It was stone-cold and impassive, save for the raised eyebrow she wore as Ronald spoke to her. That was the only hint of emotion she showed up until she spotted Jace heading over to where she sat. Her ice-cold composure crumbled and she began looking at Jace as if he were an off-putting, repulsive creature.

Clarissa made a mental note to have Simon check up on who she was. She couldn't have been involved with Jace romantically . . . for one, they acted more like siblings than potential lovers. That and the fact Jace was sitting with her instead of the other girl.

The brunette looked to be rather angry with him. She opened her mouth and let out what appeared to be harshly hushed words. Jace, in turn, rolled his eyes and proceeded to look exasperated.

Clarissa snapped her mirror closed and placed it back into her purse. A minute later, she felt Jace's hands on her shoulders as he rubbed gently. He leaned down, this time it was his mouth at level with her ear.

"Let's go, beautiful."

Clarissa shivered while Jace chuckled lowly. He offered her his hand, helping her up. Trading his hand for the nook of his elbow. Together, they faced the throng of people. They winded through the tangle of designer gowns, stiletto shoes and tipsy men.

Outside, Jace requested his car from the valet—who'd handed him his keys as soon as he brought over the black Bentley that Clarissa assumed to be Jace's.

"Nice car," she commented as Jace held open the passenger door for her. "but mine is better." She smirked.

Jace's eyebrows shot up as his eyes widened. He spit out a small, surprised cough. And his grin was just so wide, so contagious, that Clarissa couldn't help but follow suit.

"Nicer?" Jace asked put on his seatbelt. "What kind of car is nicer than a Bentley?"

"An Aston Martin."

Jace's lips pursed. "Model?"

"Vanquish."

He whistled. "And how's that car working out for you?"

"It works fast." Clarissa admitted with an amused smile that soon turned sultry. "Good thing I like my men just like I like my Vanquish."

Jace paused momentarily in his actions. Slowly, he craned his neck to look at her. And when she stared right back, unabashed, he shook his head. Jace closed his eyes, a broad smile lighting up his face. "Damn."

And then he reached forward and slammed his lips against hers. Clarissa's lips parted in surprise, and Jace took that as an invitation to plunge his tongue into her mouth.

Just as they were really getting into it, he pulled away. She whimpered at the loss of contact.

"Trust me, darling," Jace cleared his throat as he put the car in drive and pressed on the gas. "I want to continue that kiss. I really do. But then we would be giving the boys back there quite the show."

Clarissa blushed. Jace glanced at her, groaned, and clamped his hand on her thigh. "You're killing me."

"You look very much alive to me. In fact . . ." Clarissa trailed off as she tugged on the collar of his button down. Slowly but surely, her fingers worked themselves down.

"Clary." Jace gritted his teeth. "You better not continue that sentence unless you want me to take you right here. Right now."

"Doesn't seem too bad to me." Clarissa whispered.

Jace squeezed her thigh. She breathed in a quick intake of air and removed her hand. "Alright, alright. I'll behave."

He patted her leg. "I never said anything about behaving."

Clarissa laughed and resumed what she'd been doing before. "If you say so."

* * *

Clarissa slowly came back to her senses. She felt sore and she felt great.

She shifted onto her side as her hand reached out for Jace's sexy form. Last night had been . . . phenomenal, to say the least. No wonder women always went back looking for more when it came to Jonathan Morgenstern.

She felt success. He was hooked—that much she could tell from how possessive he'd been when they'd reached his hotel and he'd caught the front desk clerk ogling her, appreciatively might she add. Jace glared daggers at the man, wasting no time in grabbing Clarissa by the hips and locking her into another one of his addicting embraces. Not that she minded much, anyway.

Clarissa found the whole ordeal amusing. Jace however didn't see her humor and had no problem punishing her for it. Again, not that she minded.

Back in reality, Clarissa frowned upon not finding Jace's warm body next to hers.

And then she heard of the click of a gun.

Shit, she thought as her heart sped up. Might as well act surprised.

Clarissa's eyes flew open and she took in the sight of Jace's irate expression glowering down at her.

"Jace! What the hell are you doing?" She exclaimed as her eyes zeroed in on the glock aimed at her. She backed away, but didn't move much due to the polished headboard behind her.

"Who are you really?" Jace questioned calmly, unwaveringly.

Clarissa swallowed, feeling her throat dry. How was she going to get herself out of this one?

"Clarissa Fray." She told him, staring up into his eyes. "Clary?" she tried desperately as his face remained aloof.

"Bullshit. Fray isn't even a Russian name."

Clarissa felt her blood run cold.

"Jace." She breathed, her eyes glancing down at the gun before looking at him.

"I found this," he said as he held up something in his hand. A golden locket. Her locket. With the words "Forever and Always" engraved in Russian. She always brought it along with her during missions, as a good luck charm.

"You looked through my things?" She looked at him indignantly, feeling as furious as she sounded. "So what? It's in Russian. Your point?"

"You know, I didn't notice it before." Jace murmured quietly, so quietly that Clarissa barely caught the words. "But you have an accent. It's hidden pretty well, I'll give you that. I wouldn't have noticed it had I not found this."

Clarissa sat up straighter, her heart pounding as she waited for his next words.

"Do you work for the Russian mafia?"

Clarissa stared at him blankly for a moment. She was their leader.

"No." she shook her head vehemently, adding an incredulous look for extra measure. "I do not work for the Russian mafia. I do not have any ties, either. My—" her breath caught.

Jace inched closer, his gun still directed right at her. "My what?"

"M-my father. He was Russian. I, uh, I lived in Russia until I turned ten. Then I moved here. To America. He changed our name to fit in more." Clarissa blinked back tears, "He died two years back."

Jace's detached look slowly faded as he dropped his gun. They both stayed there, Jace looking ashamed and Clarissa avoiding his whole look altogether. There was an awkward silence before Clarissa broke it. "I've gotta go."

She stood, wrapping the white bed sheet around her as she picked her articles of clothing off the floor and made her way to the bathroom.

"Clary . . ." Jace cursed under his breath as he grabbed her forearm lightly, "Clary I—"

Clarissa tore free of his grasp, her eyes watering as she glared fiercely at him. "Don't."

"Just let me explain—"

"I don't want to hear it," Clarissa said as she entered the bathroom and locked it behind her. Glancing in the mirror, she shook her head and sighed in relief.

That was so close. Too close.

She then began putting her clothes back on, chiding herself the whole time.

By the time Clarissa reopened the bathroom door, Jace was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He glanced up when she walked through and grabbed her purse off of the glass coffee table.

She felt rather than heard Jace move towards her. "I—this is yours." He muttered, handing Clarissa her locket. She snatched it from his hands and stashed it into her purse.

Fixing the strap of her dress, she made her way to the door. Only sparing Jace one last despondent look.

* * *

"What are you going to do now?" asked Magnus as Clarissa rehashed what happened that very morning.

She smiled at Magnus, shaking her head. "This doesn't ruin anything. In fact," she sighed as she ran her fingers through her freshly straightened hair, "this is perfect."

"Perfect?" Magnus snorted. "He aimed a gun at you and accused you of being apart of the Russian mafia. Which you are, by the way."

Clarissa ignored him. "He has a another public appearance scheduled for next month in New York. I'm going to be there. He'll see me, think it's fate or something, and pursue me."

"And just how do you know he'll pursue you?"

She grinned. "I slept with the man, Magnus. I'd like to consider myself unforgettable in bed. Besides, he'll feel so guilty and embarrassed, that he'll feel obligated to talk to me and explain why he did what he did." Clarissa's eyes gleamed. "Who knows? I might just give him the time of day—I might just forgive him. What kind of a girl forgives a guy for aiming a gun at her?"

"A special one," Magnus concluded.

"Exactly," she pointed at him before leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs. "In the meantime, we'll do our homework and get some more info on the asshat. Maybe screw up some of Valentine's future projects."

"Such a planner," Magnus uttered dryly.

"The best," Clarissa added as she beamed at him cheekily. Magnus gave her a skeptical look before running a hand down his face. he may have been gay, but if there was one thing he agreed on with the male specimen, it was that women did not make any sense.

* * *

**Review! It'll really make me feel like I'm doing this whole writer-thing right. **

**Till I pick up again,**

**-HelloLittleLady**


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